


yer soft side is showin

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Mild Language, Minor Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Minor Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, Teasing, atsumu is a total brat and omi makes him regret it, no beta we die like daichi, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: Miya Atsumu can’t keep his mouth shut.  He can’t keep his locker clean.  And he sure as hell can’t keep his mind off Sakusa Kiyoomi.Not when Sakusa is ignoring him.Especially not when Sakusa is ignoring him while scrubbing the floors of Atsumu’s apartment on his hands and knees.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 296





	yer soft side is showin

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall, yer (least) fave redneck, foxkillskat, here with some soft and bratty sakuatsu fer yer weekend!!
> 
> wrote this one in a true blur as i took a break from a longer story (hopefully gonna be posted next week), so i mean it when i say enjoy the got dang mess!!

“What the hell?” Atsumu stares at his locker, mouth open.

“What’s wrong, Tsum Tsum?” Bokuto crowds his space, head popping back and forth to get a good look over his shoulder. “Whoah! What happened to your locker?”

“Let me see!” Hinata sneaks his way in front of all of them, ducking under Atsumu’s arm. “Wow, I didn’t know you could clean.”

“I didn’t do it!” Atsumu pushes Hinata’s fluffy head out of the way to get a better look.

The last time he saw the bottom of his locker was the day it was assigned to him. And now, the metal is so shiny he can almost see his reflection in it. All of his things are folded neatly, hung on little hooks, stacked on shelves, and sorted into bins. 

His photos, torn and bent from months of abuse, are pinned to the walls and door by an assortment of magnets he’s never seen before in his life. They’re black, shadow outlines of various birds and cats and dogs. There’s even a fox one, up at the very top of the door, clinging to a photo of him with his arm thrown over Sakusa’s shoulders. Atsumu kept that one to shove it in Sakusa’s face every time he claimed to hate him. Photo Sakusa’s half smile was perfect disproof.

“Then who—” Bokuto starts. 

“I did.” Sakusa pads in, damp towel hung across his shoulders and shower slippers squeaking. “It was disgusting.”

“That makes way more sense than you learning to clean.” Hinata says as he opens up his own locker, and both he and Bokuto start giggling.

“What? How—” Atsumu rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flitting back and forth between his bare locker and Sakusa’s bare chest.

“Do you really think it wise to use your birth date as your locker combination?” Sakusa folds his towel neatly like it isn’t going to be dumped in the bin in a matter of minutes. “I sure hope you aren’t dumb enough to use that for anything else.”

Atsumu sticks his bottom lip out.

“You don’t also keep a house key under your doormat, do you?” Sakusa gives him a long, pointed look.

“He so does!” Hinata giggles harder as he yanks his shirt over his mess of red hair.

“Shut yer mouth,” Atsumu snaps at him, then turns back to Sakusa. “But why?”

“I told you” —Sakusa tugs on his shirt, finally— “it was disgusting. I was tired of seeing it.”

“And smelling it,” Bokuto whispers to Hinata — or tries to. His Bokuto-level volume is more like a yell, and both of them get to laughing again.

“Hey now! Don’t act like yers are any better!” Atsumu points at each of them.

“If yours was a ten on the nasty level, mine is only a three.” Hinata sticks his tongue out.

“Same!” Bokuto fist bumps him. 

“Eight,” Sakusa states definitely, head in his locker.

“What?” Bokuto squawks. “Mine is not that bad!” He yanks open the door with Bokuto-level strength and a bunch of letters in torn-open envelopes flutter to the ground. Like they do every single time.

“Yours is a four,” Sakusa clarifies. “Solely because Akaashi uses scented stationary.”

Bokuto is too busy scooping them up and grinning to comment.

“Why is mine an eight?” Hinata pouts.

“You have eight of Kageyama’s sweaty shirts in there.” Sakusa shuts his locker and puts on his mask, hiding half of his scrunched-up face. “Eight.”

“How do you know that?” Hinata demands, pointing a finger. “Have you been in my locker too?”

“It’s rude to point.” Sakusa provides no explanation, and Atsumu gets the feeling Hinata also uses his birthday as a locker combination. Or, more likely, Kageyama’s.

Letters shoved safely back in his locker, Bokuto turns to Hinata. “What does he even wear if you have all his clothes?”

Hinata just winks and skips off to the showers.

Atsumu groans and takes another peek at his sparkling locker, so clean it hurts his eyes. In a week it will be full of empty sports drinks and wrinkled shirts and protein bar wrappers, same as before. 

“I don’t know why ya wasted yer time, Omi-kun,” he gripes. “I’m gonna mess it all up again.”

“I give it three days — no, two!” Bokuto bets.

Sakusa shrugs, unbothered. “I’ll clean it again.”

Atsumu squints at that unreadable face. Sakusa doesn’t get to act like this is no big deal, like it’s perfectly normal, like he didn’t just break and enter and touch everything Atsumu owns. So what if he left it far better than he found it? Far nicer than Atsumu ever could have done himself? He’s showing off, shoving it in Atsumu’s face how much better he is. Well, Atsumu’s not gonna let him get away with it. Not without a little payback.

“What are ya? My personal cleanin’ servant?” Atsumu winks, ready to receive a solid, “fuck you.”

“If that’s what it takes to be able to breathe in here, then yes,” Sakusa answers, monotone.

Atsumu’s lips part. 

“But if you call me your servant again” —Sakusa pulls his bag up on his shoulder— “I’ll make you regret it.”

“Okay, fine.” Atsumu’s lips twist into an evil grin. “Maid-Omi.”

Bokuto claps a hand over his mouth as Sakusa blinks slowly, eyes hazing more and more until he’s looking right through Atsumu in the most dismissive way.

“You should come clean my apartment next.” Atsumu wags his brows, not giving up. “Could get ya a little uniform and everythin’. You’d look so cute on yer hands and knees, scrubbin’ my floors.”

“Hey now, stop it.” Bokuto gives him a Bokuto-level punch to the arm, sending him reeling.

Sakusa doesn’t say a word. His gaze sharpens, eyes deep and dark and neverending, and Atsumu is caught in them, struggling to break free until Sakusa turns on his heel and throws him out.

“Omi—” Atsumu calls after him, but it’s too late. Sakusa is gone.

“You’re in trouble now!” Bokuto shakes his head and rocks back and forth on his heels. “He’s gonna kill you.”

“Omi-kun’s all talk.” Atsumu waves his hand like the big man he is and turns back to his locker. “I’m not afraid of him and his stupid, prissy, mask-wearin’ face.”

Still, Atsumu stares at that shiny metal, scoured clean of months and months of grime, and he can’t help but find it unnerving. Almost as much as Sakusa’s silence.

——

That silence left Atsumu empty. He tried to fill it with laughter, messing with Hinata and Bokuto up until they parted ways. Then he tried food, courtesy of Onigiri Miya. Then he tried conversation, but ‘Samu yelled at him to stop harassing his staff and kicked him out. 

How anyone could think ‘Samu is the nice twin is lost on Atsumu, and he spends the whole walk back to his apartment seeing red and muttering every curse he wished he thought of at the time. It does him no good; even anger won’t fill the bottomless pit inside of him. Whatever. He has plenty of ways to distract himself at home, plenty of magazines with images of dark eyes and curling lips to entertain his mind.

Atsumu’s hand freezes as he twists the doorknob. It’s already unlocked. He kicks up the corner of the mat with the toe of his sneaker to find his spare key missing. Why did he think it was a good idea to keep one there? And why is Sakusa’s voice in his head, berating him for it?

“Hello,” he calls out cautiously, opening the door one centimeter at a time.

The lights are on and he can hear water running. Someone is in the kitchen.

“‘Samu?” Atsumu calls as he kicks off his shoes. But that doesn’t make any sense. 

“Mom?” Also impossible; his parents are off on their anniversary trip this weekend, probably already holed up in the hot tub at their cabin. 

Atsumu reaches for his trusty umbrella, ready to brandish it against the intruder, when he realizes something is off. A lot is off. The haphazard pile of shoes he thought he kicked his into is no longer there. Instead, every single pair sits neatly on his shoe rack. His umbrella hangs on the side of it, looking ragged in comparison. 

The mess of shopping bags and backpacks and hip pouches which used to inhabit the shoe rack are nowhere to be found. He pulls open the closet door, mouth gaping at the way his coats are hung in order by color, perfectly positioned on their hangers, zipped and buttoned to their tops. And there are his bags, in three different bins at the bottom of the closet.

Someone touched all his stuff. Someone organized it. Someone cleaned it.

Atsumu crouches down and swipes a finger along the shiny surface of the entryway floor. Freshly waxed.

There’s only one person who would do this.

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu tries. 

Nobody answers, but the water shuts off in the kitchen.

Atsumu rounds the corner, socked feet slipping on the slick floor, and there he is. Dressed in black slacks and a stark white button up with the sleeves rolled up over elbows, Sakusa is scrubbing the floor of Atsumu’s kitchen on his hands and knees.

“What the fuck,” Atsumu yowls. “What do you think yer doin’?”

Sakusa sits back on his haunches and swishes the brush in the soapy water of the bucket, dark eyes staring right through him.

“Say somethin’, ya asshole!” Atsumu stomps his foot like a child. “You broke into my fuckin’ apartment.”

Sakusa tugs off his rubber glove and retrieves the key from his pocket, holding it out to Atsumu like it’s no big deal, like him being here is perfectly normal. 

A flash of red fills Atsumu’s vision and he grabs Sakusa by his bony wrist, yanking him forward and sending a splash of water over the edge of the bucket.

“If you don’t say somethin’, I swear I’m gonna—” Atsumu pauses. “I’m gonna—”

Gonna what? Sakusa isn’t afraid of him. That much is clear by his bored stare, like he’s grown tired of Atsumu’s tantrum. As such, he drops the key, and it bounces across the floor with a series of clangs.

“Fine.” Atsumu releases him and throws his hands in the air. “If that’s how yer gonna be, then fine. Clean my floors all ya fuckin’ want, why don’t ya? Clean the whole place while yer at it.”

Sakusa pulls his glove back on and resumes his scrubbing, entirely unbothered.

“Fuck you,” Atsumu mutters as he stalks off to his room.

He slams the door and leans up against it, seething. Is this some sort of joke? No — Sakusa doesn’t joke; that’s impossible. This is payback for Atsumu’s smartass comment, for calling him his maid. Sakusa is giving him exactly what he asked for, rubbing it in his face, taunting him. Well, two can play at that game.

Atsumu pulls his shirt over his head and his socks off his feet and throws them all at the wall. They slide down to join the pile of others, and he’s grateful at least his room has been left alone. Just in case, he gathers those three issues of _Volleyball Monthly_ —the one with Sakusa’s face on the cover, smug and smirking; the one with a full page spread of him flying up for a spike, shirt fluttering to show off his abs; and the one with the ad of him holding up a bottle of disinfectant wipes, lips parted like he’s about to say a single word and end Atsumu’s life— and returns them to the stacks on his shelves. They’ve been lying tangled in his sheets for far too long.

Next, Atsumu tugs his pants off, trading them out for the shortest shorts he owns. They’re hot pink, bought for him as a joke by Suna back in high school. Well, joke’s on him — Atsumu loves these hideous things. And he knows for a fact they’ll get a rise out of Sakusa. Stretched out and soft from years of wear, they manage to slide over his thick thighs, barely covering his ass.

Still shirtless, he saunters back to the kitchen and throws open his fridge, making sure to step all over the wet floor with his bare feet.

“Wanna drink, Omi-kun?” He bends back, spine arching, to see what Sakusa is doing.

He isn’t even looking; his face is inches from the tile, inspecting a particularly nasty stain in the grout from the one and only time Atsumu invited his teammates over to decorate cookies. Food coloring and Hinata don’t mix, same as Bokuto and ovens. Sakusa’s cookies were the only ones which came out both pretty and delicious. Figures.

“I bet yer thirsty, huh?” Atsumu resumes his taunting, pulling out two beers. “Down there, workin’ hard on yer hands and knees. Must be tough.”

He slides onto the newly cleaned countertop, skin of his thighs sticking to its surface. There, he cracks open one of the cans and kicks his heels against the cabinet below, sipping and watching Sakusa as he works away the stain.

The silence goes on and on, filled with the sounds of scrub brush against floor and feet against cabinet, and Atsumu can’t stand it any longer.

“Give up now,” he warns. “This is only gonna get harder for ya, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa ignores him.

“Or maybe I should call ya Maid-Omi,” Atsumu tries, and those poisonous eyes flick up to him, gone in a flash.

“Ah, so it does bother ya.” Atsumu grins evilly and takes a swig of his beer. “Well, I was right. You do look all cute in yer uniform, scrubbin’ my floor.”

Sakusa doesn’t humor him again, and Atsumu decides it’s time to take it up another notch.

“Though I woulda picked out somethin’ a little flashier.” He leans back and runs a hand down his toned stomach all the way to the edge of those pink shorts. “Somethin’ with a little more skin.”

Sakusa dips the brush back in the bucket, swishing it around and around while he stares at nothing. He should be staring at Atsumu. He should be at least noticing him, eating up the way he’s posed and his lack of clothes. 

Sakusa always notices. His eyes always linger, always drag over Atsumu’s flesh, always play audience to his immature requests. Sakusa always indulges him, but not now, and Atsumu feels like a child who’s had their favorite toy stolen right from their hands.

“Maybe I should show a little more skin.” Atsumu tugs at his waistband with a hooked finger. “Whaddya think Omi-kun? Should I take these off too?”

Sakusa rises and goes to the sink, turning his back on Atsumu.

“Don’t ignore me, you fucker.” Atsumu slides off the counter, feet slapping the wet floor until he’s right beside Sakusa, growling up at him. “I know ya want me to take ‘em off.”

Eyes fixed on the drain, Sakusa starts pouring out the bucket in a slow and steady waterfall.

Atsumu’s nostrils flare and his mind goes red. Before he can stop himself, he wets his hand under the flow of floor water and slaps it to the fabric of Sakusa’s white shirt. It doesn’t matter if he instantly regrets it, instantly knows he’s screwed up big time — he leaves his damp hand there on Sakusa’s chest like it belongs.

“Give up.” He twists his dirty fingers into the white, turning it dingy and gray. “I know ya want to. I know you can’t stand this.”

Sakusa swallows, then resumes his bucket emptying like Atsumu isn’t even touching him. 

This isn’t working. No matter what he does, Sakusa won’t stop, won’t talk to him, won’t give him the attention he needs. And Atsumu is the one who can’t stand it. He’s going insane.

With fresh water pouring into the bucket from the tap, Sakusa finally looks at him, through him, face clouded over.

“Stop,” Atsumu begs like he isn’t the one holding Sakusa there. “Please stop.”

Sakusa’s eyes focus on him, and, even though he’s lost, it feels like victory.

“I’m sorry fer callin’ you a maid, okay? And sayin’ all that other shit, too.” Atsumu’s breath is shaky. “I regret it, okay? You win.”

The very corner of Sakusa’s lip twitches and the bucket is overflowing in the sink, but neither of them move, neither of them dare to break apart.

“I’ll forgive you,” Sakusa finally speaks, “if you scrub the floor.”

“What?” Atsumu shakes him by his shirt, those curls bouncing. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Dead serious.” Sakusa’s lips press together and his eyes harden. “Get on your hands and knees and clean the kitchen floor until it shines.”

Atsumu scowls. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll never speak to you again.” Sakusa turns off the tap. “I’ll never even look at you.”

“You can’t do that!” Atsumu cries. “How’re ya gonna spike my sets?”

“There are other setters, other teams that would have me.” Sakusa turns up his nose, all haughty. “Teams where I wouldn’t be harassed by the likes of you.”

Atsumu wants nothing more than to dump that entire bucket of water on his head, to drown out those stupidly perfect curls, to ruin the rest of Sakusa like he ruined his shirt. But Atsumu doesn’t do it. He can’t risk it, not when Sakusa is dead serious.

He lets go of Sakusa’s shirt with a shove and lugs the overfull bucket out of the sink.

“Fuck you,” he grumbles as it splashes on him, water making trails down his shorts as it drips to the floor. “Yer such a fuckin’ prick.”

Roles reversed, Sakusa leaves his gloves in the sink and takes Atsumu’s spot on the counter, popping the tab on the second beer. 

“Less talking, more scrubbing.” He waves a hand.

Atsumu makes sure to give him one last glare before dropping to his knees. “I can’t believe you. Ya break into my locker, then my house—”

“I didn’t break into anything.” Sakusa takes a sip. “If you had any brains at all, you wouldn’t leave a key under your mat.”

Atsumu drops the scrub brush into the bucket with a splash. “Yer so mean.”

“I’m mean?” Sakusa huffs in disbelief. “I tried to do something nice for you and you called me your fucking maid!”

Nice? Atsumu’s brows slide together.

“Then you think it’s okay to yank me around and ruin my shirt with your grimy hands.” Sakusa pulls his shirt away from his chest and snarls at Atsumu’s messy handprint. “I don’t know why I bother.”

Atsumu thinks back to that picture at the very top of his locker, the one with the little fox magnet.

“Keep scrubbing,” Sakusa demands, yanking him from his head.

Atsumu complies, fishing the brush from the bucket and setting to work.

“Did you really clean my locker to be nice?” he asks after he’s washed away the trail of his footprints. “Or did you do it ‘cause it was nasty, like ya said earlier?”

“It was disgusting.” Sakusa sighs. “But so is Hinata’s.”

Atsumu tilts his head. “What does Shouyou-kun’s locker have to do—”

“Idiot,” Sakusa cuts him off. “I did it because you’re always griping about how you can’t find anything in there, because your shirts are always wrinkled, and your photos are always torn and bent.”

Atsumu’s hands stop scrubbing.

“I did it because I care about you.”

“Huh?” Atsumu sits back on his haunches. “Are you soft fer me, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa glares.

“You are!” Atsumu grins, giddy, and he feels like he could scrub his whole apartment, a thousand apartments, maybe even a million. “Who knew prickly Omi-kun had a soft side?”

“I’m going to go back to ignoring you,” Sakusa threatens.

“Don’t you dare!” Atsumu resumes his scrubbing as furiously as his hands will allow. “I really hate that.”

“Why? Can’t live without attention for five minutes?” Sakusa tilts the beer can all the way back.

Atsumu stares at the stain in the grout, the one Sakusa spent so much time trying to scrub away. At one point it was bright red, angry and glaring. It’s not gone, but it’s faded to a vibrant shade of pink. Hot pink. 

“Yers,” Atsumu corrects, looking up. “I can’t live without yer attention.”

Sakusa sputters and coughs into his shoulder, crushing the empty can in his fist.

“I need it. I need ya to look at me and talk to me, even if yer just glarin’ and sayin’ mean shit.” Atsumu throws the brush in the bucket and rises from the floor. “I’ll take it. I’ll take anything I can get from ya.”

The crushed can bounces across the floor with a series of clangs as Atsumu presses his grimy hand right back to that same spot.

“I need you,” he says, eyes sinking into Sakusa’s. 

They’re deep and dark and neverending, like the hole he left with his silence. But unlike last time, Atsumu doesn’t struggle. He gives himself over and, even though he’s lost, it feels like victory when they swallow him whole.

Sakusa’s hands run down his stomach, all the way to the edge of his pink shorts, and Atsumu’s fingers twist in his shirt once more.

“You’re such a mess.” Sakusa tugs at his waistband, taunting him.

Atsumu reels himself in by that shirt, filling the counter space between Sakusa’s knees. 

“Clean me up, then,” he breathes into Sakusa’s neck. “Leave me better than ya found me.”

Sakusa huffs a breathy laugh. “Is this your attempt at talking dirty to me?”

“Maybe.” Atsumu tugs Sakusa closer until his lips are brushing his ear. “Let’s hear you try.”

“Hmm, you know what’s really dirty?” Sakusa’s fingers dig into his hips. “The floor you never finished scrubbing.”

Atsumu pulls back and blinks. “Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

“Dead.” Sakusa smiles, evil and haughty and filled with glee. 

“Whatever happened to soft Omi-kun?” Atsumu laments. “The Omi-kun who’s nice to me?”

“Also dead.”

“What?” Atsumu yelps.

“Only joking.” Sakusa does the impossible like it’s no big deal, like it’s perfectly normal. 

“I’m right here,” he adds, smug and smirking as he pulls Atsumu back into him. “You have my full attention.”

He’s not joking now. Sakusa’s lips are on his, parting, pressing, pushing, and all Atsumu can see is the color Sakusa fills him with, the color of victory on the other side of that neverending black. The color of soft, and of well-worn, too-short shorts. The color that red leaves behind.

Hot pink.


End file.
